


The Fragility of Loss

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frottage, John is a Mess, M/M, Self Harm, suicidal behavior, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 02:12:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3470525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John without Sherlock. Slight John/Mary, eventual Johnlock. TRIGGER WARNING: major depression, self harm, and suicide attempt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Light Was Gone

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock is dead, John kind of wants to be too.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AN: these characters do not belong to me- the basis and the characters belong to those awesome people at bbc and Sir Arthur Conan, etc. 
> 
> John without Sherlock. Slight John/Mary, eventual Johnlock.

7-02-12, 6:00  
The light had started as a glow, a gentle yellow that floated around his conciousness. He scarcily noticed it except for the moments it was eerily quiet and void, he could feel it there pulsing. It was growing slowly. He wasn't quite sure how he knew; maybe it was the quiet warmth it held at the back of his mind, maybe the light that inexplicably showed him the way. But John knew when it was gone. Darkness spilled in through cracks he didn't know existed- cold entered and froze his to his very core. He'd do anything to get it back again, but he knew now what it was, who it was.  
The gray clouds created no shadows on the grouns below him. Bleak, shallow. He hadn't gotten this far before. He wrote the note ten days after, and since then he'd just been waiting. Waiting to follow him. The wind nipped at the sides of his face, his toes curling in his worn brown loafers. He wasn't as scared as he thought he should be.  
_I'm sorry. Somehow I missed it. What were you thinking in those moments? What were you hiding behind all those damn statistics? No matter why you didn't tell me, I should have known. It's me whose always made sure you eat and sleep so why didn't I know? Without you here- it has no meaning. 221Bs empty and Mrs. Hudson is convinced I can't do anything without her there. Well, she's not wrong. I'm going to follow you. Since I met you I have, why should it stop now? Honestly Sherlock, I'm sorry I couldn't be stronger- more extraordinary like you- but this is the end for me._  
The note was taped to the back of his grave. John felt more at ease knowing it was there. He looked down again, immediately wishing he hadn't. The fire department had tried their best to scrub the blood out of the cracked concrete where he fell, but even from here John could see the blush-red outline on the sidewalk. He took a deep breath. He could do this. Hardly took any time at all.  
Approximately 16 seconds after Sherlock jumped, he died.  
It had taken John more then that time to figure it out, sitting at the kitchen table across from an empty chair. Sixteen seconds wasn't enough time to melt butter in the microwave, heat up water for a cup of tea- bloody hell, 16 seconds was the intro or outro to your favorite song, and what's a song without the middle? But he could do this. He could do this for Sherlock. Do it for himself.  
Who would he be leaving? Hamish could fend for himself. His parents would be fine without him. Men from his platoon were okay, they had moved on. His only real friends were Lestrade and Sherlock, and Lestrade, well, he'd be fine.  
He should've noticed something was off that day. When Sherlock's name came up on his cell he should've gotten there faster- at least be there for those sixteen seconds...  
John shivered. The streets were silent below him, his chest tight. It's okay. Sixteen seconds, nothing more.  
He closed his eyes and leaned forward as a voice rang out behind him.  
"Bloody hell! Stop!" John turned to see Mary, hair dancing in the wind, sweater clutched across her chest, coming toward him. He felt her nails on his arm, pulling him down from the ledge. "What the fuck were you thinking John?" He was silent.  
Mary dragged him to the ground and sat beside him, a tight hold on his sleeve. She called an ambulance. "John? Answer me!"  
The weight in the back of his throat was growing heavier, the burn in his chest coming to the forefront of his mind. She was right. What was he thinking? John shook his head. His jumper was tight around his chest. EMTs rushed onto the scene. Mary was shouting things at them, pointing to him. John was being lifted from the ground and hauled down the stairs.  
"Sir, did you consume any kind of drug or alcohol?" John shook his head, not raising his eyes. The EMTs hand was gripping his wrists tightly. They helped him into the ambulance.  
John wondered how many people died in here. Sherlock would have known the statistic.  
An EMT pushed the sleeves of his jumper up, wincing at the sight of the three plum colored scars on his forearm. A blood pressure cuff was wrapped around his arm, as the EMT listened before shouting 112/79 at the woman in the front of the vehicle. He turned back to John.  
"Roll up your other sleeve." John sluggishly did as he was told. Four more plum-colored scars came into view. "Where else do you have these?"  
"Legs," John grunted softly. The EMT knelt in front of him, rolling up the left leg of his pants.  
"Sara, I need you back here." The woman in the front turned toward John and slipped into the back. "Get the suture kit." John sighed on the cot. The woman knelt in front of John, seeing the deep bleeding gash carved into the back of his calf. John hissed as he felt the needle pierce his skin.  
"Jesus. Jack look at this." The male EMT bent over Sara and glanced at the the cuts.  
"Wrap him. They'll take care of it at the hospital." Sara nodded. John laid back on the cot as Sara began to wrap heavy material around his leg.  
"Sir, could you state your name and emergency contact?"  
"John."  
"Contact?"  
"Dead."  
"What's your last name John?"  
"Watson," Sara glanced at John. "What?"  
"Nothing. Sorry Mr. Watson."  
"No, please." John let out a distorted laugh. "What is it?" The woman bit her lip, glancing toward Jack, his expression distant.  
"Sherlock Holmes, was he your contact?" John covered his eyes and took a deep breath.  
"Why."  
"We met before. We took him to the hospital." John curled up and pressed his head into his legs. Tears came fast as he tried desperately to not think of that time- Sherlock, broken, mangled and bruised- his hand limp in John's. The EMTs, gazing warily at each other, not sure what to do with their hands or expressions in such a small place with a dead detective and his shaking partner.  
"John?" John's chest was cracking in two, his lips dry and breath short. He couldn't breathe, his mouth opening and closing on silent words. "Mr. Watson we need you to lay straight." Jack tugged on his legs, but he couldn'lt release. He was too exposed like that- he felt like someone was about to stab him in the stomach; tear off his skin. He was choking on sobs now, he couldn't hear the medics behind him.  
"Jack, hold him. Let's put him out."  
As John faded, his mind focused.  
Yes, the light was gone. 

 

7-02-12, 15:00  
Mycroft was going insane.  
Sherlock was pacing across his office, hair disheveled, hands flying, glaring every so often at Mycroft and the phone. The curly haired man, despite his intelligence, could not comprehend that Mycroft could not just _will_ the bloody phone to ring. He sighed and glanced at the clock on the screen of his computer monitor, 15:37. Sherlock had beaten down his door about twenty to nine.  
"It's been seven hours Mycroft." Sherlock announced, glancing at his cell.  
"I know." Mycroft folded his hands on the old oak desk.  
"I'm not very patient."  
"I know." Mycroft growled. He was about to make some quip about how he needed to work and Sherlock should be working to when the phone rang. Sherlock lurched over the desk and grabbed for the phone, Mycroft shoving him backward with the flat of his palm. "Mycroft Holmes."  
He made a few 'hmms' and 'ahs' before saying 'I understand' and 'Thank you'. Sherlock was not enthused.  
"What's going on?" Mycroft hung up the phone before replying to Sherlock.  
"John's fine. They took him to the hospital- before he jumped, mind you- and bandaged his legs. They're keeping him there for observation in the psych ward for today and sending him home."  
"They're sending him home?!"  
"He has the legal right to refuse treatment."  
"How bad were the wounds?" Sherlock sighed.  
"They didn't say." Sherlock threw his hands up, exasperated.  
"Why didn't you ask?!" He took a deep breath and dug his nails into the flesh of his palm, gritting his teeth. "I need to see him Mycroft."  
"Out of the question." Mycroft huffed.  
"And what if I refuse to help with your little _operation_?" he spat.  
"Also, out of the question."  
Sherlock slammed the door on his way out. 

He was doing what he could for John, and he knew it. He had called Mary to go get John since he couldn't, he was checking up on him and making sure he was- well, not exactly okay, but at least alive. But on the other side of things, this was his fault. He hadn't thought this would happen- he didn't know that John would react like _this_. Really, the thought of his doctor doing such a thing was unimaginable. In theory Sherlock knew that doctors got sick, so ergo, a doctor could be depressed, suicidal even. But wouldn't that doctor know enough to reach out for help?  
Sherlock shook his head and returned to his bunk. The plain gray fleece that covered the yellowing sheets was neatly pressed- without John here, no one was forcing Sherlock to sleep. He knew the black sandbags under his eyes would need to be dealt with _eventually_. Sherlock was going to avoid being human for as long as possible. Speaking of being human, he should probably eat.  
If there was one thing Sherlock didn't know he was going miss it was John's cooking. No, he wasn't a five-star chef, but as food goes he might as will be one compared to the gruel Sherlock got here. He usually just tried not to stray from the foods that _were_ the right color. There was a knock at the door.  
"Sherlock, are you planning to come eat sometime this week?" A tall man completely dressed in black opened the door and peeked his head through the crack.  
"You're my bodyguard, not my mother, Marco." Sherlock replied easily.  
"This operation requires you to be alive." Marco crossed his arms, now standing in the doorway.  
"This operation requires my cooperation as well." Sherlock sighed, annoyed. "This conversation is getting rather tedious."  
"Mycroft says there's a call for you at the desk." Marco closed the door. Sherlock stood, following him.  
"From who?"  
"Mary."  
"I've got it." Sherlock sped up, walking past Marco and down the cinderblock hallway to the Administration desk. Slightly woozy, he took the phone from the secretary.  
"Sir- I need your official password."  
"6-13-12 Watson." She clicked the mouse of her computer a few times before nodding. "Mary? How is he?"  
"He's- he's-" She sputtered. Sherlock's heart stopped.  
"What's going on?"  
"We're at the apartment but he's just so-"  
"Spit it out."  
"He's dead," Sherlock braced himself against the desk, breaths coming quick, but not bringing air to his lungs.  
"John's-"  
"He won't eat- he sleeps but he's always shouting, thrashing around."  
"Alive," Sherlock muttered.  
"What?"  
"John's alive."  
"Why wouldn't he be- Oh. Oh I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"  
"It's fine." Sherlock breathed. "How deep are the cuts?"  
"Three millimeters. They got pressure on as soon as they got to the scene."  
"He needs to eat. He'll never pass up a good cup of tea, make him some peanut butter toast- make sure the it has a lot of fat and protein. If he's not eating he'll need it."  
"I can do that. Anything else."  
"Check his arms and legs at night. Don't let him near medicine. Just- keep him safe Mary."  
"I will."  
"I might not be able to contact you for awhile. I go undercover in two days and I can't have ties to you."  
"I understand."  
"Take care of John." Sherlock hung up the phone, handing it back to the secretary. He needed to talk to Mycroft _now_. 

He burst into his office, pushing past his guards, sighing loudly. Mycroft threw down his pen and stood.  
"What could you possibly need?" Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose.  
"If you want me to do this, I have a few conditions."  
"You already have _conditions_. Mary."  
"If you want me to do this, I need you to contact me if anything happens to John."  
"Define everything, _dear_ brother."  
"If he dies, if he's in critical condition. I need to know, even if you won't let me do anything." Sherlock bit his bottom lip. " _Please_ , Mycroft." he hissed.  
"You better be doing a hell of a job for everything it could cost me." Sherlock smiled.  
"Then it's a deal?" Mycroft nodded and huffed.  
"Are you ready to go out?" he asked.  
"Always ready. I have the information and the know-how."  
"Good. Report to the back dock at twenty-three hundred hours." Mycroft slid back down into his chair.  
"I thought I didn't ship out till Thursday."  
"Plans have changed."  
"Got it." Sherlock turned to leave.  
"Oh and Sherlock? Do be careful."


	2. Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AN: these characters do not belong to me- the basis and the characters belong to those awesome people at bbc and Sir Arthur Conan, etc. 
> 
> John & Mary  
> (Time Jump)

4-16-14, 16:00  
John wasn't real sure where the turning point had been for him. He knew it was somewhere between last November when Mary kissed him and early in December when he realized he depended on her for everything- The doctors hadn't cleared him to work yet, so John could only work afternoon shifts at the hospital, broken bones and minor injuries. He missed work. Anytime he wasn't working he was with Mary or Lestrade- like he needed a bloody babysitter. But he had realized in his dreadfully plain days that Mary was inching closer and closer to him with each passing day. He remembered distinctly when he first came that Mary sat at the head of the table and him on the other side. Now Mary sat to his left.  
John wasn't sure if Mary thought he was happy here. He went through great lengths to clean up the blood he left in the sink and avoid nightly body checks, but everytime he looked in the mirror he could see that he was clearly a wreck. He wished he could fix himself, but he just couldn't. Everytime he had to get dressed or eat a decent meal or anything really, John was reminded of _him_.  
John didn't hate him, not at all. But he had forbidden himself to think his name, to see his face in his restless dreams. He could think of him on Thursdays and Mondays in the graveyard. John could think of him when the sink water ran red- but any time but that was strictly off limits. That off-limits time was the only thing that kept him sane, alive even. He didn't forget him. It still hurt badly in those moments, but it was like a dull ache instead of a shooting pain.  
Ella kept telling him to keep writing his blog, or keep busy with something, but what she didn't understand was that the blog, and John himself, had died with _him_. Of course, when he told her this she told him he needed to "recreate his own existence". Ella was the only one who knew what he had lost- a flatmate, a friend, another first love. He could never tell Mary. It would break her heart. Besides, what was the point? He was gone. The love was not.  
John wasn't sure he would've ever really gotten up the nerve to say something to him, but he liked to think he would've. He had wasted so much time- no, _all_ the time he had with him. Half his dreams were shadows and nightmares, the other half were vile dreams of what could have been. Dreams that let John wake up with a smile before he realised that the other side of the bed was cold. He wasn't there. He never had been, and now he never would be.  
Those were the days John needed the pain- the good dreams that left him in pieces.  
"John?"  
Mary was home.  
He slid the shiny blade back in between the pages of a novel and brought his feet up to his chest. He could hear her footsteps in the kitchen.  
"In here!" _Smile, John. Smile._ Mary opened the door. "How was work?"  
"Fine. Potatoes for dinner sound alright?' Mary smiled.  
"Of course. Is Lestrade staying?" Mary shook her head.  
"Want to come help me?"  
_No._  
"Sure."  
He didn't hate Mary. Really, he didn't. She was sweet and kind to him, but he had to make her think he was making progress, that life was getting easier. That he didn't want to jump off a fucking building or spill himself down the drain.  
But the problem was that it never really got easier- just easier to hide.  
John followed Mary out into the kitchen and began peeling potatoes as she chattered away about Trista (Or was it Krista?) from work. Someone's gotten engaged, her boss seems off, the weather was nice- It barely reached John's ears. Then she was behind him. He could feel her hot breath, giving him goosebumps. Blue sleeves wrapping around his stomach.  
"How was your day?"  
"Fine. Lestrade and I played a mad hand of gin rummy."  
"Mmm." Mary licked her lips. "So I've been thinking." John turned to face her.  
"Yeah?"  
"You've been here with me two years in just two months, and I think we get along rather well, and- well, people are asking questions."  
"Questions?"  
"I just wondered if you would consider getting married." She paused. "To me."  
John blinked.  
_No, no, no._  
"You have a point."  
Another voice emerged in his mind.  
_If you can't be happy, at least make her happy._  
"Let's." He smiled without teeth as Mary held him close and brought her lips to his, soft and gentle. He could feel flakes of lipstick from earlier in the day still clinging to them.  
In all his dreams-  
No. Not here. Not now.  
Mary pulled back and smiled. She opened her mouth and soundless words flowed. John was still smiling like a frozen statue. _Ella said to move on. I'd call this moving on._  
"I was so afraid to ask! I'm so excited."  
"I was thinking the same thing. In upset you beat me to it." John replied. Mary leaned in for another kiss. Her lips were plump and feminine, her tongue searching for John's.  
He didn't want this, but he wanted to make Mary happy.  
He pulled back before she did.  
"Go freshen up for dinner love." Mary whispered. John slipped out of the kitchen and into the pale blue bathroom of the flat. He finally allowed himself to think _that_ thought.  
In all his dreams, Sherlock's lips were chapped and insistant. Pressing and exploratory, curious and intelligent, just like him.  
_Dreams, John. Just dreams._  
The bloody best and the worst he'd ever had.  
Every dream since he was gone seemed to get softer in his mind, a little more dull in color. He couldn't see Sherlock as clearly any more, remember the feel of his hair, smell his expensive shampoo. _Time,_ Ella had said. _Time is your friend._ John glanced in the mirror. No. Time was his enemy. His nemesis. The criminal mastermind that stole his good nights of sleep and forced him to wake happy. The force that made him cut deep when he realized Sherlock wasn't the first thing he thought of that morning, or when his death date passed and John also forgot. Those wounds were bad. He gave himself stitches. He still had scars.  
John splashed some water on his face and slid a blade out from the crack behind the medicine cabinet. He took the peroxide and poured it over, pulling up his jumper sleeve and looking into the mirror. His eyes were sullen, his skin dull. He needed to shave, even if Mary liked the beard. He was so old. When did he get so damn old?  
"You should have known." John whispered, looking into the mirror. He dragged the blade across his forearm, the sting both painful and exquisite. It was funny. He deserved it, as punishment, but this addiction, this desire for his own blood, almost made it seem like a treat- not a punishment, but a gift. Relief. It only came from pain anymore.  
"John?" Mary called.  
"Out in a minute!" He thought he had more time. He slipped the blade back into the crack, grabbing medical bandage and wrapping it tightly around his arm, the crimson soaking through a little faster then John would've liked. He needed to start being more careful. Marraige ment living together, invading each other's personal space. Sharing everything, even your-  
Shit. Shit fuck fuck shit.  
Marraige meant sex. Sex meant naked. Naked meant hundreds of scars all over John's body, words carved into his arms and legs. How the fuck was he supposed to explain that? Mary thought he was better. Mary needed him to be better. He couldn't marry her. She would never be able to bear it, seeing all the scars, knowing just how much he hated himself- there was only one solution.  
Mary was his only place to go. She wanted to get married, he couldn't. Lestrade was married now, there was no way he was messing up that marraige. He wasn't going back to a psych ward. It was the perfect time.  
The perfect time for John to die.  
It solved everything. Mary could get married to a man without scars that would truly love her. Lestrade would have more time with his wife. Ella could take on a patient with more hope. And John, John would finally get the release he was looking for. This was it- the solution to everything. The last frontier, the one last chance that might bring him back to Sherlock after all. Afterlife. John had really never really thought about it before.  
He was so tired. Of the pain, the faked smiles, everything that reminded him of that day; reminded that it was his fault. If he couldn't find Sherlock in the afterlife, couldn't tell him he was sorry, then what did it matter if death was nothing? This was it. He had nothing left to lose.  
But what happened two years ago couldn't happen again. If he jumped there was a chance he'd survive.  
He couldn't bleed out- no time. The way he saw it his only way out was the gun left in 221B. John took a deep breath. His stomach was heavy, but his chest was light. John slipped out of the bathroom, composing himself and sitting down at the dinner table next to Mary as usual. She smiled up at him, eyes bright.  
"Smells delicious."  
"Thank you." Mary replied. "Oh, I'm just so excited John."  
"Me too." John smiled.  
Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's excited for two updates in two days? Comment and let me know what you think so far!


	3. Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AN: these characters do not belong to me- the basis and the characters belong to those awesome people at bbc and Sir Arthur Conan, etc. 
> 
>  
> 
> John and Sherlock.

4-17-14, 1:00  
"John's _what_?"  
"He's engaged." Mycroft sighed.  
_John moved on. John was over Sherlock. He didn't need him. He had- recovered._  
"When?"  
"Yesterday. Mary's got a bit of a loose mouth."  
_Mary?_  
No. This was good. It was good for John. This meant progress, a new life after two years of suffering. John deserved it. Sherlock couldn't not be happy for John.  
"Oh." Sherlock had been in the infirmary for nearly a month. At first he had understood. He had taken quite the beating while undercover, and he was waiting everyday to return to John. But now this... How could he return home and take away this life John had finally made for himself?  
"You're going home," Mycroft said quietly. "There's a flight waiting for you at 3:00."  
"I can't."  
"Sherlock, you've been begging me this entire month to let you go home-"  
"Things have changed Mycroft. He's recovered. He built a new life for himself. How can I come back and take that all away?" Sherlock's hands curled into fists. He wasn't sure what this feeling was- Anger? Sadness?  
"You need to go home."  
"Give me one reason; besides John of course."  
"The hospital is missing three stitch kits from John's workplace. I know on his credit card there are multiple blade purchases." Mycroft offered. Sherlock's chest hurt.  
"I'll go home. But I'm not promising I'm going to see him." Mycroft rolled his eyes.  
"Go pack, _please_. Two years is more then enough time to spend with you." Sherlock smiled as Mycroft turned to leave.  
Home. Sherlock was going home.  
But how much had changed while he was gone? 

4-7-14, 8:00  
The plane had been freezing. Sherlock had convinced Mycroft to put him up in a hotel for a few days so he could figure out what to do next, but he wasn't happy about him avoiding John. He climbed the steps of the downtown inn, canvas messenger bag on his shoulder. He brought the essentials with him. All his other things had been kept in the apartment of 221B. Sherlock slid the key into the lock, slung his bag onto the faded crimson carpet, and set back off down main street.  
John and Mary lived at 412 Akron Street, according to Mycroft. The wind was blowing fast through London, and Sherlock buttoned the lapels of his trench coat, pulling his scarf over his face. He didn't need anyone to know he had "returned from the dead" yet. Four-hundred and twelve wasn't anything like twenty two B. Dirty siding lined the sides, a buzzer at the door with labeled apartments, flowers and weeds alike grew near the low windows. Sherlock wrapped his scarf tighter around his mouth and nose, moving to press the button with the faded 412 sticker. _He wasn't going to see John. He just wanted to hear his voice._  
_Bzzz._  
Static, then a small cough.  
"Hello?" Sherlock's heart clenched in his chest. His John. He was just upstairs. "Hello?" John repeated. Sherlock opened his mouth and promptly closed it again. He wasn't going to mess up John's new life. He had promised himself that. He walked around the building to the far side where bushes were overgrown. He slipped behind them. If he was lucky, he'd get to see John.  
It wasn't even 11:00 when John came out of the building, bag slung over his shoulder and coat wrapped snugly around him. He was hunched down, and at first Sherlock wasn't sure it was him, the ghost of a beard on his thin jaw.  
He kept his distance from John, making certain that he stay at least a half a block behind him at all times, but John never even glanced back at him, his stride staying even and hard on the pavement. The sky was overcast and slate gray, the wind still frigid on the tops of Sherlock's cheeks. His eyes stung with each gust, still forcing them open, not allowing John to leave his sight. As pavement began to crack as they continued on Sherlock realized where they were going.  
_I should leave._  
He continued on.  
When the pavement finally faded to matts of sawdust colored grass, Sherlock sped up and looked on. John was sitting in front of his grave. Well- if you could call it sitting. He looked as if he had just decidedly collapsed there, his hands braced in front of him, knees pushed to the side. His messenger bag was at his side, pressed purposefully against his leg. Sherlock crouched behind a tombstone not too far from John. He could hear his breaths, heavy, mumbling words he couldn't quite make out. This was not what moving on was supposed to look like. Sherlock frowned. He might have to reveal himself after all. 

4-7-14, 9:00  
John felt the dew on the grass soaking through his slacks, his breath coming in sharp gasps. He was scared, or some part of him was, but anticipation ran through his veins. Relief. Relief was finally going to come to stay. He touched the cool granite of Sherlock's headstone, biting down hard on his lip. He reached in his bag, pulling out the first thing he needed- the thing that was going to help him do this. He had hidden it from Mary for all this time, pulling it out on the worst of days. It was stiff, and needed washed, but if John concentrated hard enough it still smelled like _him_. The sweat off his neck, his bitter cologne, his bloody expensive shampoo- things he never knew he loved so much till it was gone and buried. He hugged the scarf to his face, blue fading at the edges.  
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Hot tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes. "I'm coming." John's hands fumbled with the brown bag at his side until he felt cool metal against his hand. He pulled the gun out, taking the safety off, hands trembling. He brought the barrel under his chin.  
"John." John looked up.  
"That was fast." John reached for his sleeve and pulled him down to the ground. Before Sherlock could even sit up John crushed him to his chest. "You don't smell the same." He mumbled.  
"John." Sherlock pulled back, still keeping an arm around John.  
"I'm so sorry Sherlock. What did I miss? Why didn't you tell me anything?" John leaned back into him. "I missed you so damn much."  
"John..." Sherlock's voice was pained, his face white.  
"Is that all you can say? We're both dead and that's it?" John dug his fingers into Sherlock's coat. "I love you so fucking much. Why didn't you ever deduct that; you bloody idiot?"  
Sherlock combed his fingers through John's hair.  
"You're not dead. _We're_ not dead John." Sherlock whispered. They were silent for a moment, before John spoke.  
"What?"  
"I'm so sorry John."  
John pushed out of Sherlock's arms and reached, trembling, for the gun. Sherlock pulled him back. He collapsed, sobbing, struggling against him.  
"Why? Why did you go away?"  
"I had to go. I never thought this would happen." Sherlock slipped his cell out of his coat pocket, dialing 911. "Send an ambulance to Grover Cemetary immediately."  
"But I saw you- I saw you fall. I saw you on the-" John choked and curled into himself  
"It had to look real." _Blood matted into dark curls, pale limbs on the concrete, thin and crooked like a fallen bird._  
"You _destroyed_ me." John was limp against him. Sherlock lifted his arm, sweater loose on his wrist, seeing the pink stripes hiding under the fabric.  
"John; what have you been doing to yourself?" Sherlock whispered. John pushed his face into his neck.  
"It hurt. It hurt so bad." John could hear the sirens coming up the hill. Sherlock yelled something down the hill, and EMTs rushed up to them, pulling John up from the ground and away from Sherlock. "No!"  
Sherlock stood as they pulled John off him. He could see John fully for the first time, his legs were shaky, his gut was gone, his eyes were tired and dark.  
"You don't understand, let go of him." John stumbled forward into Sherlock's arms. "You're okay. I've got you John." He felt his weight fall on his chest, John's limbs limp at his sides. Sherlock clutched him tighter until the EMTs reached to take him to the ambulance.  
Sherlock climbed into the back of the ambulance, one of the EMTs rolling up John's left arm, armed with a blood pressure cuff. Sherlock held his other hand.  
"Fuck." the EMT sputtered. Rows and rows of vertical and horizontal lines ran up his arms, overlapping. Sherlock clenched his teeth. This hadn't been in any of Mycroft's reports- well, at least not anywhere near this extent. The EMT rolled up John's other sleeve, barely brushing Sherlock's hand. More scars. _Mycroft is dead._

4-7-14, 22:00  
"Where is he?"  
"Where is who?"  
"Sherlock _fucking_ Holmes."  
"He stepped out for a moment." The nurse said, forcing a smile.  
"Well get him the fuck back in here." John spat. The nurse opened the door and motioned toward someone outside. John sat up on the cot, arms hidden underneath the covers due to his short-sleeve hospital gown.  
"John?" Sherlock slipped through the doorway.  
"Close the door." Sherlock swallowed and pushed it closed.  
"John, I know what you must be-"  
"No you don't." John whispered, Sherlock was silent.  
"I'm so sorry John," He looked down at his hands. "What can I do?"  
"You can tell me why. You can explain to me why the fuck you thought you could leave me alone," John hissed. "You can promise never to leave again."  
"I didn't think I could just leave you. I was undercover and I couldn't contact anyone, but I left you with Mary. Mary was supposed to protect you."  
"Mary _knew_?" Sherlock sat at the foot of the bed, reaching for John's hands. He pulled away.  
"I'm sorry. She really is in love with you." Sherlock sighed. "At least that's something good to come out of it."  
"You think Mary is the best thing about this situation?" John laughed. "Yes, I had a gun to my head because I was so _fucking_ happy to be engaged to _Mary_."  
"What can I do John?"  
"You can tell me the truth."  
"What-" Sherlock sputtered.  
"You left me because I was in love with you." John said softly, teeth clenched.  
"Don't make this about that."  
" _That_?" John paused. "Then enlighten me Sherlock, why did you leave?" Sherlock took a breath.  
"It wasn't safe for you to be with me-"  
"Bullshit."  
"John _please_." Sherlock took John's hand, despite his attempts to pull away. "That night at the pool; you, _we_ , were so close to death. One press of that button and... I can't lose you. It was better to be away for your safety, then to be with you and put you in danger. Mary was supposed to protect you so much more than she did. I saw John. Your arms.  
And I'm so sorry. It was selfish to think you would be fine, to leave you here, but now maybe you see that you're better off without me. You're _safer_ without me." John was silent, hand limp in Sherlock's, eyes turned to the ground.  
"Where's Mary?"  
"Outside."  
"Does she know?" John asked. Sherlock pulled John closer to him, hands steady on his back. "What happens next?"  
"What do you want to happen next?"  
"Stay with me. Please Sherlock, I can't do this without you anymore." John's chest was tight.  
"I don't think-"  
"I'm not safe without you. You found me in the cemetary. If you leave, that's where I'll end up." John coughed. "But it's not a threat, I don't want to force you into staying with me."  
"I think you've misunderstood. I have no intention of leaving you. I love you." Sherlock whispered. John choked on a sob. "John...?"  
"You can't be here. Sherlock would never-"  
"What can I do?" Sherlock lifted John's arm, pressing his hand to his closed lips.  
"You _can't_ be here."  
"Why not?" Sherlock murmured.  
"It's like before- the dreams-" John shook his head.  
"John, what can I do?"  
"You're dead. I _saw_ it." John pulled his hand away from Sherlock's. "This is just the sort of story I would make to replace you. I died didn't I? Or did someone stop me? Did I blow my brains out and now I'm brain-dead but-" Sherlock tugged on John's shoulders, pushing his lips to his forehead.  
"You are not dead John. Thank god." His arms wrapped around John, feeling the vertabrae of his back, his collarbones poking into Sherlock's chest. "Thank god."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally getting to the meat of FOL. Thanks to all my readers!! :-)


	4. Not Clear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AN: these characters do not belong to me- the basis and the characters belong to those awesome people at bbc and Sir Arthur Conan, etc. 
> 
>  
> 
> John could finally go home.

4-9-14, 11:00  
"John Watson?"  
"Yup."  
"You're being released." The nurse said slowly, staring down at his clipboard.  
"Where am I going? Mary's?" John sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The nurse shook his head.  
"The doctor had some conditions for your immediate release."  
"So...?"  
"You'll be under twenty-four seven watch until otherwise stated, and you'll be staying with Mr. Holmes."  
"Which Holmes?"  
"Sherlock." The nurse replied. John swallowed. "He's waiting for you at the front desk."  
"Okay." John took a deep breath.  
"Your clothes are on the chair."  
"Got it." John coughed. The nurse ducked through the doorway. John stood and pulled on his slacks under his hospital smock, slipping on his loafers over his hospital socks. He reached behind his neck to pull his gown open. Two hands touched his shoulders. John tensed.  
"Thought you might need some help." Sherlock's fingers worked at the knot at the nape of John's neck.  
"Thank you..." He yawned.The strings of the smock fell to the sides and John took a step forward, shrugging the gown off.  
"John,"  
"Don't say anything." Sherlock could see the outline of John's ribs, his vertabrae protruding as he pulled on his jumper. "Let's go."  
"Okay," Sherlock began. They walked out to the front desk and signed the release papers given to them by the foul-tempered nurse, making their way to the front of the hospital to hail a taxi. Sherlock opened the door, waiting for John to slide across the backseat. John fell asleep before the door had even closed. 

4-9-14, 15:00  
The sheets smelled dusty, all the pillows piled up on one side of the bed behind him. The mattress was stiff and old. John reached back and stretched, turning over to his left side and pressing his face into the pillows. _Smelled like Sherlock._ John smiled and sighed, snuggling into the covers. There was a chuckle at the door.  
"Hey there." John turned to the voice and groaned.  
"Sherlock, where'd you go?" John threw out an arm toward Sherlock and let it fall to the mattress. Sherlock smiled and climbed into the sheets beside him.  
"I'm glad your awake. I was getting a little worried." He sat Indian style, about as far away from John as he could be. John lifted a hand to his shoulder.  
"C'mere," Sherlock leaned down to John before the former soldier pulled him down and wrapped his arms around his neck. "You smell like you now." John smiled into the sheets, and Sherlock braced himself against the headboard.  
"Are you ready to get up?"  
"No," John gave his arms another yank, forcing Sherlock down on the old mattress beside him. "Cold." Sherlock wrapped the comfoter around his shoulders, draping it over John.  
"Better?"  
"I'm high I think." John whispered. Sherlock laughed.  
"It's the sedative. It'll wear off soon enough."  
"Woozy."  
"If you eat it'll wear off faster." Sherlock offered. John frowned and tightened his hold on Sherlock.  
"Too far away."  
"Do you want to sleep more?" John shook his head. "Then what do you want to do, John?"  
"Kiss you, I think." John's eyes were big as Sherlock shook his arms off and sat up. "Please?"  
"I would, but you're still..." Sherlock scanned him up and down. "High."  
"Pfft." John rolled his eyes, reaching up and tugging on the edge of Sherlock's shirt.  
"John-"  
"Sherlock," John mimiced. Sherlock settled on the edge of the bed, John's hands wrapped around his stomach, pulling him flush against his chest.  
"Missed you," Sherlock sighed and pried John's warm and calloused hands from around him. "Stop," John pouted. Sherlock turned to face him, his blue eyes clear in the evening light.  
"One kiss," Sherlock said. "But then you have to eat something."  
"If you say so." John leaned forward, and Sherlock felt his heartbeat quicken. He ground his teeth together. Was he really going to do this _now_?  
He leaned down to meet John, watching as his eyelids fluttered closed. His heart pounded harder in his chest. John's hands were tangled in the sheets in front of him. _Nope. He was absolutely not going to do this_ now. Sherlock pressed his dry lips to John's brow, letting himself dwindle for only a second in the combined smell of cheap shampoo and sweat before pulling back.  
"Come on. Tea and toast at the very least." Sherlock said, rising from the bed and turning to the door.  
"Okay." John frowned.  
Sherlock hurried himself into the kitchen, filling the kettle and plugging in the toaster. He had done as much unpacking as he could while John slept, hoping he could make it feel a little more like home. John came in and leaned against the counter, watching as he put two pieces of bread into the toaster and took two mugs from the cabinet.  
"You're cooking me food," John mumbled.  
"What?"  
"Nothing." John lifted a stack of books off a chair and sat down, resting his chin in his hand as Sherlock finished making his food. Sherlock placed the plate in front of John and crossed his arms as the water boiled. John glanced up at Sherlock. "Could I have the tea first?"  
"Initiative." Sherlock smirked. John rolled his eyes, picking up the bread and taking a bite. He shivered. "Cold?" John nodded, Sherlock reaching for a closed box marked "linens" and opened is, lifting out an old quilt and handing it to John.  
"Thanks."  
Sherlock turned to the kettle, pouring two cups of tea. After he had placed one in front of John, and settled down beside him with a cup of his own, conversation stalled as John's mind began to become clearer.  
"What time is it?" John asked, glancing at Sherlock's cell on the table.  
"4:16."  
"You didn't even check-" John muttered, before stopping at Sherlock's expression. He lifted the phone and clicked it on.  
"4:16." Sherlock brought his cup to his lips. John was silent for a moment.  
"Thank you for taking care of me." Sherlock's eyes met John's over the rim of his cup.  
"You did more than this much for me." Sherlock paused. _Before._  
"Speaking of this," John said, raising his glass. "What is this? What's going on now?"  
"Well, I was hoping you'd let me stay in 221B with you again."  
John placed his cup on the table with a _clink _and folded his hands in front of him.__  
"Sherlock, if we're going to stay together, which I'd very much like to, I need to know you aren't going to suddenly disappear again."  
"I won't."  
"I'll only say this once, because honestly I still feel high, but I don't think I can go through this again. Bloody hell, I don't know how I'm going to get through it this time." John whispered. Sherlock set his mug on the table, reaching across to John with shaking hands.  
"I need to know you're not going to _try_ again." Sherlock, took his hands, breath shallow.  
"Why would I? My reason is sitting right in front of me." Sherlock's eyes snapped down to the floor, hands stiff. "Oh god, Sherlock, I'm sorry." John took a breath.  
"It's-"  
"I'm sorry. I just- _need_ you so fucking much, I couldn't, _I wouldn't-_ "  
"It's _okay,_ " Sherlock replied. "I understand. But I also need- I _need_ \- John. John, pull up your sleeves." John pulled his hand away from Sherlock.  
"No. Why would you ask that?"  
"John-"  
"I can't."  
"I-" Sherlock started.  
" _I can't_." John ripped his hand from Sherlock's, pushing out his chair behind him and standing up. Sherlock was silent, staring as tears filled John's eyes. "I can't."  
Sherlock stood and shuffled around the table, reaching out toward John. His shoulders rolled in, as he covered his face, bracing himself against the wall behind him. Sherlock wrapped his arms around his waist, pulling him toward him, his ribs pressing agaisnt Sherlock's hands. "I'm sorry." John choked.  
"Shh. You can." Sherlock whispered. John shook his head.  
"They're ugly, and they're everywhere."  
"Nothing on you could ever be ugly." Sherlock wrapped his fingers around John's wrist and pulled him toward the bedroom. "Sit." John fell, face tear-streaked, onto the edge of the bed. Sherlock turned and shut the door, pushing up his sleeves. "We're going to get past this. No more secrets. Put your arms up." John raised his arms warily, and Sherlock bent to push his jumper up over his head. Before Sherlock could look, John crossed his arms protectively in front of him.  
"Just- Just promise not to say anything. Not at first." Sherlock nodded and John shut his eyes tight, unfurling his arms. Sherlock took his hands gently, turning his palms to face the ceiling and trying not to make a sound.  
White, red, and purple lines criss-crossed across John's skin, vertical and diagonal, old and new. Sherlock ran his fingers over some of the raised scars, raising John's arms to look at the scars across his ribcage. Sherlock's eyes were wet, and he raised an arm to wipe away his tears. His hands trembled as he followed the scars all the way down to his hips.  
John's hipbones bulged out from his body, the space between them concave and hollow; the sharp peaks of each were marked by condensed purple scars so dark they looked like bruises. All of them straight and parallel. Eerily so. Delibrate and planned, not a question present to how they happened.  
"Slacks off." John fumbled with the button till Sherlock's hands unclasped it for him. _How did he always know? Even if he was Sherlock _fucking_ Holmes. John's slacks fell to the floor, and Sherlock, still kneeling in between his legs, finally saw the whole of it. He saw everything. He saw _John.__  
.Sherlock was leaving the tears on his cheeks now, hands clasped shakily around John's left leg. He turned it to the light.  
2-13-12.  
Written over and over again in white and pink scar tissue.  
"Is this-?" Sherlock started, feeling John tense before gripping his waist with both arms.  
"This is why I didn't want-" John whispered.  
"John," Sherlock said, his voice catching on a sob in his throat. He swallowed. "What is this?"  
"Your death date." John muttered reluctantly.  
Sherlock let out a gasping sob, pressing his face into John's stomach and trying not to think. This man, _his_ John, had held a blade over his legs and pressed into pale skin- for him. For the memory of him.  
"Why?" Sherlock said hoarsely.  
"I- I felt like it was my fault. It was a punishment too, if I woke up and my first thought wasn't about you."  
John's stomach was soaked with Sherlock's tears, goosebumps raising on his skin. John pushed Sherlock back, just slightly, and ran his fingers through his curls. "You can't blame yourself for this."  
"It's-"  
" _Don't,_ Sherlock."  
Sherlock rose from the ground and took John's hand in his, turning his arm and staring sadly at the mess of scars. He ran a thumb over John's hand and unceremoniously pressed his lips to one of the many scars on his arm.  
"This is all my fault," Sherlock mumbled.  
"It was me. I did it to myself. You can't think that way."  
"But _clearly-_ "  
"There's nothing _clear_ about this situation." John sighed. "There's no right way to do this, but I know we can."  
Sherlock wiped another tear from his face.  
"You're sure optimistic." Sherlock replied with a small smile.  
"It's the drugs," John said, returning it.  
Sherlock squeezed his palm. This might turn out to be his most important- and most dangerous- case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I was gone for so long! Working on the next as I post this. (If anyone reads this still please let me know!)


	5. Attempts at Normalacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AN: none of these peeps are mine and I am not making $$$ off this story just keeping the Johnlock dream alive. 
> 
> Settling back into their home- Ms. Hudson included.

4-10-14 6:46  
Sherlock had fallen asleep with John clutched in his arms, his body curled around his. The smaller man's head was tucked into his chest, the rise and fall of his chest a welcome comfort. John twitched under his hold, he couldn't stop thinking about the way Sherlock had cried- the way he looked so broken at the sight of John's scars. He listened to Sherlock's deep breathing, glancing at the clock. 6:46. Usually Sherlock was up by now, and John asleep, but here they were. _I wonder if Sherlock ever watched me while I slept._ John thought fleeting. _On one hand, statistics. On the other, he was bloody Sherlock Holmes._ John smiled and opened his eyes, watching the taller man. _Tall, lithe. So beautiful._ John lifted his fingers to his collarbones and slid them down his chest- barely touching.  
"John," Sherlock breathed.  
"Sherlock?"  
The taller man's eyes stayed closed, his breathing even. "Sherlock?" John whispered again. He lifted a hand to Sherlock's shoulder, brushing his fingers along the path to his neck. John heard his breath hitch in his throat, just slightly. John touched his fingers on his neck again, and Sherlock's face contorted, his mouth letting out the smallest of whines.  
"Why are you up so early?" Sherlock huffed.  
"It's late," John protested. "You're usually up by now."  
"Usually I don't have you in my bed," Sherlock whispered. "Are you hungry?"  
John could feel his cheeks burning and he hoped that Sherlock would blame it on the warm blankets and body heat.  
"Not really."  
"Well- we're eating."  
"Why?" John complained.  
"Need to put some meat on your bones," Sherlock sighed and stretched, turning away from John. "I just have to run out to-"  
"Run out?" John echoed. "Why?"  
"Pick up some food."  
John was silent, and at the space between words Sherlock turned back to him and took his hand. "Do you want to come with me?"  
"Yes."  
"You should really rest-"  
"Bloody hell Sherlock, I'm coming with you." John said finally. Sherlock smiled and sat up, taking John's hand.  
"I love this excitement," Sherlock replied. "But none of the shops are open till about eight."  
John glanced at the clock. 7:04.  
"Tea, or sleep?" John asked.  
"I'm thinking sleep. How about you?"  
"That's fine with me."  
Sherlock laid back down beside John, clutching him to his chest.  
"I'll be here when you wake up."  
John's chest felt tight, and he pushed into Sherlock's arms.  
"Don't get all soft on me," he whispered; but Sherlock was already fast asleep. 

4-10-14 8:47  
John kept an uncomfortable distance from Sherlock inside the shop, staring at the back of his head in waiting. Sherlock every so often would glance back over his shoulder to smile at John, and when he did John looked down to the floor, all the while smiling back stupidly. He watched Sherlock take a can of soup from the shelf and scrutinize it, then turning to face him.  
"Do you like potato soup?" Sherlock asked.  
"Yeah. Good for a cold day."  
Sherlock stared at him, the can now ignored, and opened his mouth before closing it again. He turned to put the can in his basket and offered a hand to John.  
"What?" John asked, staring at it stupidly.  
Sherlock smiled at a weird angle and took John's hand in his, continuing down the aisle. John was tugged along, his face in flames.  
"You were too far away," Sherlock mumbled.  
John let himself be tugged along, Sherlock only letting go to slip around the corner to grab milk. John bit his lip, turning the corner a mere ten seconds later and coming face to face with the taller man. Sherlock caught his shoulders before they collided and smiled widely.  
"John," Sherlock said, taking his hand again. "I'm not going anywhere."  
They took their groceries through the checkout and walked awkwardly close but not touching all the way back to 221B. Sherlock jiggled the knob and slipped in, holding it open for John. His smile faded quickly as urgency appeared on his face.  
"Quick, John!" He shut the door behind him as they heard-  
"John? John is that you?"  
John turned to face Mrs. Hudson who had appeared.  
"Mrs. Hudson-" John started.  
"John! I was wondering if you were ever going to come home! I just heard about your engagement yesterday; and to say the least I was shocked. I never would have guessed you and Mary would last at all."  
"Well- uh, the engagement-"  
"Has been dissolved." Sherlock finished, eyes cold.  
" _Sherlock_!"  
"Hello Mrs. Hudson."  
She stumbled toward Sherlock with a strange look on her face, till she came to a stop in front of him and slapped him across the face. John gasped loudly behind her.  
"Do you know how worried he was? Do you know where Mary found him to begin with?" Mrs. Hudson yelled. "He was ready to jump off the same bloody roof and you weren't even _dead_?"  
"There were-" John interrupted.  
"No, I deserved it John." Sherlock said quietly. John stared wide eyed at his frozen figure. Everyone in the room was silent for a moment.  
"Thank god you're alright." Mrs Hudson stuttered, gathering them both in her arms. "My boys."  
When she drew back she wiped a tear from her eye, her smile reemerging. "Would anyone like some tea?"  
"Sherlock was actually going to make us breakfast." John said awkwardly.  
"My dear. Things really have changed." She muttered. "Don't worry yourselves. Have a good breakfast, oh and boys,"  
"Yes?" Sherlock replied, John's eyes rose to her wide smile.  
"Will you still be needing both of those bedrooms?" 

4-10-14 9:58  
John was still blushing when they arrived at their apartment. He hadn't said anything to Mrs. Hudson, just blushed at the floor, but Sherlock had a very inelegant coughing fit at which point she decided to slip from the room.  
Sherlock set their groceries on the table, _clean,_ John noted. _No experiments or dead animals._ John pulled out a chair at the table and sat down, willing his cheeks to go back to their normal color.  
"I'm sorry about that," Sherlock said with a small smile. He turned to the bags and started putting the milk and other items away.  
John was lost in thought. _Does he want me to go back to my room? Does he want me to stay with him? Where do I want to sleep tonight?_ Though at the moment John would never admit it, he couldn't imagine sleeping in his old room now that he knew what it was like in Sherlock's. Everything smelled like him, as a first, but the mattress was more comfortable, the air was cooler, it was safer-  
Or, maybe that was just John.  
Sleeping anywhere but in Sherlock's arms tonight made his stomach drop, and sleeping in his arms made a whole new feeling appear, but John wasn't going to think about that right now.  
"John?" Sherlock repeated.  
"Oh- what? Sorry."  
"Would you like some soup?"  
"If you have some too."  
Sherlock placed a bowl of soup in front of John and sat down adjacent to him with a matching bowl in front of him. They were silent for a moment, John cautiously eating a spoonful of soup. It has been so long since he had regular meals like this.  
"John?" Sherlock asked tentatively, as if he was waiting for John to storm from the table- or maybe across it. "Have you spoken to Mary yet about all of this?"  
John frowned, staring into his soup.  
"What is there to talk about? I didn't love her. I never loved her. I tried to kill myself, and finally you came back."  
Sherlock felt a pang of guilt in his chest, trying not to look at John.  
"But it wasn't her was it? You didn't try to- die, because of your engagement."  
"No," John muttered. "I didn't."  
"Don't you think she'd like to know that? What led you to that end?"  
John was silent. He really didn't want to share this right now. "John," Sherlock asked tenderly.  
"Sex," he said quickly. "Marriage means sex, and there are scars everywhere Mary didn't know I had."  
"Oh." Sherlock whispered. "So you never-"  
"Y-you thought we-"  
"Well you did live together for almost two years..."  
"It was never- uh, like that."  
"I just assumed you had consu-"  
" _Sherlock,_ please shut up right now." John replied, exasperated.  
"Oh, right."  
John was silent.  
"Did Mary _say_ -" John began.  
"No, stop worrying."  
"Than why-"  
"Mary's pregnant, John," Sherlock replied.  
"She's-"  
"Yes." Sherlock paused thoughtfully, his face grim. "Are you sure you never-"  
"I'm sure!" John shouted. "And I don't think I'll be calling her now."  
A pause.  
"So the baby-"  
"Could not possibly be mine. Let's make that the end of this okay?"  
"Okay," Sherlock said, a brilliant smile lighting up his face. "Tea?"  
"Tea would be lovely."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit shorter today, but this next one should be very lengthy. Thanks to everyone who reviewed! Keep it up! ♡


	6. Tender, Tender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The porn (lite) starts here! Please note before reading! 
> 
> He needs Sherlock. He's always needed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating fast- but probably won't become usual behavior. Please review for this is my first (minor) attempt at porn(ish). Hope it's not shit.

AN: The porn starts here. Underage readers abort mission now please. 

 

4-10-14 22:56  
John stared at Sherlock over his pulled up knees. There he was, in his own chair in their own flat sitting nearly close enough for John to touch. The normalcy they had created so far was bizarre, after two years just falling in sync so easily with each other all over again. John had been staring for awhile he knew, but how long had since escaped him. He got lost in the intricacies of Sherlock's curls, long fingers, calm expression- hell, he was just lost in his presence at all. He couldn't help thinking that Sherlock didn't have to be here. He didn't have to come save John, or care about his scars. He didn't have to cry for John's pain, or make him tea, or make sure he ate- but he did. He was here, helping John, _caring_ about him. But John could hear the slight voice at the back of his head telling him that he would leave again, or maybe ship him back to Mary. Maybe the loony bin.  
He shook his head and crossed his arms, pulling the collar of his jumper up over his chin. _Warm._ John kept his eyes on Sherlock, watching his eyes flicker over the pages of his book. He hugged himself tighter, watching Sherlock's calm figure. Sherlock's eyes suddenly flickered to his. John's chest was tight. He couldn't pull his eyes away though he so badly wanted to. He was afraid of what Sherlock was going to say; after all, what if-  
"Are you cold, John?" Sherlock asked.  
John paused at his words, eyes wide. Neither of them blinked. Slowly, John nodded and Sherlock stood, looking at him expectantly. When John didn't move he offered him a hand. "It's pretty late. We should get to bed; you need your sleep."  
"Okay." John took his hand and stood, hesitant. _Does Sherlock want to stay with me? Why does this matter so much to me-_ Sherlock tugged him along, into the bathroom where he checked his ankles and arms for any lacerations as the doctor had ordered. John avoided eye contact with Sherlock, his embarrassment too great to face at the moment. The thought in his mind kept churning. _Does he want me to choose? Am I just going to follow him to his room like a little puppy?_  
When Sherlock was satisfied that there were no new injuries he could find, he took John's hand again, leading him back toward the bedrooms. They entered John's old room to find it made up and waiting.  
"You can come sleep in my room again if you'd like, but I thought you might appreciate a little bit of space." Sherlock explained. John nodded and stepped over to the bed.  
"I guess I'll stay here since you made it up."  
"Be sure to let me know if you need anything." He said seriously. John nodded as Sherlock closed the door quietly. John walked over to his own bed, slipping off his jumper, trousers, and socks and slipping on the pajamas that Sherlock must have left for him. The pants were too long for his legs, but the shirt fit. In the clinging white material he could see the shadow of his ribs. He sat down on the edge of his bed.  
_I'm cold._ He thought wearily. _I wish I had the courage to just go back to his room with him._  
John fiddled with his hands in his lap, debating the pros and cons of going over to Sherlock's bedroom. He stood, hand hovering over the knob of the door. _If something happens I can always just say that I came for another blanket._  
He turned the knob and arrived at Sherlock's door much faster than he would have liked. He knocked on the door frame.  
"Come in." He heard. He entered nervously, closing the door behind him. "I'm sorry about that. I meant to leave the door open. I must have forgotten."  
"Don't worry about it," John said, scratching his head.  
"What did you need?"  
"I uh-"  
"I still have the pills the doctor sent home with you if you couldn't sleep. Do you need one?"  
"No, not really," John murmured.  
They were silent for a moment, Sherlock's eyes on John and John's eyes on the carpet.  
"Is it too cold?" Sherlock reasoned.  
"Yeah."  
"Do you want to stay in here tonight? I can find the space heater tomorrow if you'd like."  
John breathed a sigh of relief.  
"Sure," he answered. "But really, don't worry about the heater. I'll get used to it."  
"You're welcome to stay in here too. I don't mind."  
"Okay."  
They were silent for a moment, John still staring slightly.  
"Could you hit the lights?"  
John nodded and turned to turn the light off, walking over to the bed. Sherlock paused for a moment in the dark before speaking.  
"Well, come on then," Sherlock whispered, smile evident in his voice.  
John slid in beside him, the bed already warm. He kept his hands to himself, but could feel Sherlock's presence in the dark. John tried not to move. How had he ever done this last night? "Are you still cold?"  
"Just a little." John replied softly. He felt a long arm wrap around him, Sherlock pulling him as close as he dared.  
John could feel the body heat radiating off Sherlock, and he dared not touch him. Sherlock's arms around him made his chest tight, and it felt like he almost wanted to cry. John realized quickly that he wanted more contact, and before he could talk himself out of it he reached out a hand and grabbed Sherlock's shirt, pulling himself flush against his body. Sherlock curled around him, nose pushed into his hair, curled back just the slightest bit at the hips.  
"John," Sherlock breathed. John was silent, content with the all-consuming warmth he had found himself. He pushed back up into Sherlock so their entire bodies were touching. Sherlock shifted back again and John felt a pang of rejection. He didn't want John that close to him.  
"Sorry," John muttered, sliding back across the bed. In Sherlock's haste to keep John in his arms he pulled him too hard against him and John realized that rejection wasn't what he should be feeling.  
John's breath caught in his throat, the feeling in his stomach growing more urgent. Sherlock groaned and pulled back.  
"I'm sorry," he said apologetically. "I was trying to keep-"  
Before Sherlock could finish John pushed up against him again, finding exactly what he thought he had the first time. Sherlock let out a moan and pushed John back. "John," he huffed. "Not tonight."  
John's ears were ringing. All of the feelings that formed each an every scar on his skin came rising up, his breath quickening.  
" _Sherlock-_ "  
The taller man leaned to kiss John's lips, chaste and dry as fire.  
"Not tonight. Please, John.  
"Okay," John said, pushing up to his lips against Sherlock's again. "Okay."  
Sherlock pressed another kiss to his lips, desperate- like he would drown without John's air. John crushed them together, getting as close as they could.  
"Sleep." Sherlock whispered, pressing a final kiss to his lips.  
John shoved his head into Sherlock's collarbone.

 

4-11-14 8:49  
John awoke to the smell of breakfast when he opened his eyes, the other side of the bed had gone cold. He rubbed his face and stumbled into the kitchen to find Sherlock cooking on the stove, his curls wet and low hanging. _He must have showered._ John thought at once, and then briefly wondered if this shower he took was cold. John bit his lip and walked over to the stove, wondering exactly how he should act-  
"Good morning," Sherlock said with a grin. "Ms Hudson helped with the eggs and bacon. She called my learning experience a 'fire hazard'."  
"Good morning," John returned, distracted by Sherlock's curls that now framed his face.  
For some reason he couldn't stop thinking about how they would feel between his fingers- about the situations that he might be in to get to hold those curls in his hand. _It's too bloody early for this._  
"What would you like on your toast?"  
"I'm not terribly h-" John paused at Sherlock's expression and sighed. "Peanut butter, please."  
Sherlock turned to butter his toast and place it on one of the two plates beside him. When he turned back to John, his face was unreadable. He set the plate in front of John and went back to fixing his own.  
"Sherlock?" He asked. Sherlock made a 'Hmm' sound from the stove. "Will you-could you, uh, come here?"  
Sherlock turned around John was standing again, facing him.  
"What-?" Sherlock started.  
John took his shoulders in each hand, pulled him just the slightest bit down and kissed him.  
His kisses were an inferno, not the fleeting spark from last night. They were tongue and teeth, nails digging into skin- desperate to get just a little closer. Sherlock pushed back against John, fingers clutching, mouth seeking. John took a step back.  
"Sorry," he said. "I really needed to make sure you wanted this."  
"Of course I want you," Sherlock huffed, breathing hard.  
"Then why not-"  
"I needed to make sure it wasn't a mistake."  
"For me?"  
Sherlock nodded.  
"You just lost your fiancée and regained a dead flat mate, I wasn't sure-"  
John smashed his lips back onto his, pushing him against the counter. They both knew they should be talking- soft spoken words about when they realized- how John felt when he was dead. There was so much to be said and yet-  
John pushed himself up against Sherlock, sliding his lips down his throat. He kissed and licked and nipped at the sensitive skin, enjoying every sound he made. Sherlock pulled back.  
"It's burning."  
"Oh, right," John coughed. He reached down to adjust himself just slightly, the loose pajamas a godsend. He fell back into his chair at the table, and felt like crying. He tried to hold himself together, clenching and unclenching his fists. Sherlock finally sat down beside him, face still flushed and neck still red. _Goddamn beautiful._ John thought.  
"You should eat," Sherlock said with a coy smile.  
"But-" John began, paused my a glance from Sherlock's eyes.  
"Food. Then we'll talk."  
"Talking can-"  
"Absolutely not wait but sadly our kissing can."  
John rolled his eyes. Sherlock's smile widened. They both stared down at their food. 

_I need you._ John thought.  
_I need you._ Sherlock thought.


	7. Talking it Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John talk it out.   
> Smut, basically. 
> 
> (Underage aBORT.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own these poor gay babies, and my stolen line is owed to the author of "Gravity is Nothing", see below.

AN: The following contains two lines of dialogue from one of my favorite Johnlock fics, Gravity is Nothing ( by allonsys_girl ). It was so perfect I felt like I had to use it here, to pay tribute of course. Comment if you spot it! 

 

4-11-14 10:03

John sat cross-legged on Sherlock's bed, close to him- but not touching. He ground his teeth and fiddled with his fingers, trying to figure out how to breach such a huge topic.   
"What are you thinking?" Sherlock asked.   
"That there's too much. I- I don't know where to start."   
"Should I ask you something, perhaps?"   
"Okay." John replied, shifting awkwardly under Sherlock's gaze.   
"The first time you tried to- to kill yourself, what were you thinking? Why would you try and follow me?"   
John pushed his nails into the skin of his arms, biting his lip.   
"I was thinking it was my fault, that I should have noticed."   
"But it wasn't-"   
"I had just figured out that I was in love with you," John mumbled, looking away. "You were the most important thing in my life, and you were gone."   
"I-" For once Sherlock's words failed him.   
"Why didn't you come home the first time? Why did you send Mary?" John sputtered.   
"She was supposed to be good for you. Healthy. She was supposed to watch over you the way I wished I could."   
John rubbed his eyes as they filled with tears, willing them away.   
"Why didn't Mary know? About the injuries- everything?"   
Sherlock shook his head, his hands clenched into fists.   
"Mycroft said he had a handle on the situation. And when I heard you were engaged, I thought you were doing well. Moving on, living a new life."   
"And then-" John started.   
" _And then,_ " Sherlock echoed. "I returned to England. I just wanted to see you once; hear your voice. I followed you to the cemetery and that's when..." Sherlock trailed. John reached for his hand in his lap, and Sherlock took it limply, still not looking at him.   
"When did you stop working at the clinic?" Sherlock asked. John's hand twitched.   
"A few months _after_. The psychologist wouldn't clear me for work, and Mary didn't want me to either."   
"Do you miss it?"   
John nodded.   
"I always planned to go back, but before that I was always planning other things." John sighed. "Death was always on the forefront of my mind."   
"Jesus, John."   
Sherlock pulled John to him, his hands wrapped around his shoulders.   
"I missed you so much."   
"I missed you, too."   
"I didn't think-" John clutched Sherlock's shirt in both hands, his head on his stomach. "I thought it was my fault."   
"John-"   
"Do you have any idea how you looked?" John whispered with a sob. "Sprawled out on the concrete, and you were still-" John choked. "I was still in love with you."   
"Was that the first time- on your arms?"   
"No," John said quietly. "While I was in the army, whenever one of my mates died- it wasn't my arms. My ankles."   
"How long-"   
"That day was the first time I had to give myself stitches. The first day I wanted to follow you. I was so _sad_ , Sherlock. It was like you took everything with you. Nothing mattered anymore."   
"I never thought it would affect you that much. I thought you'd forget about me, about _us_." Sherlock tightened his hold on John. "I loved you, love you so much and I thought you would be better without me- I never gave that a second thought."   
"I dreamed about you almost every night, things that never happened, the feel of-" John swallowed. "Your hands and lips. I think that was the hardest for me. That you still didn't know."   
"It wouldn't have changed anything, I would have still had to leave."   
"It would've changed it, for me at least." John sat up a bit, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder. "I could have told you I loved you before I lost you."   
Sherlock was trembling, hands stroking John's face and bringing it closer. He leaned his forehead against the smaller man's.   
"I'm so sorry John."   
"I know. Me too." John pressed his lips to Sherlock's lightly, more for comfort than anything else. When he was touching Sherlock he always felt safer. Maybe it was because he was so sure that he was right there.   
John couldn't get close enough to Sherlock, to prove to himself again and again that he was there. It was impossible, unbelievable, and John wasn't sure what he did to deserve this man, but thank god he did.   
"What would you have done if you came back and found me married to Mary?" John asked. He was just asking questions now, trying to understand- to prove that this was real.   
"I don't-" Sherlock paused. "I don't really want to talk about that."   
John squinted at Sherlock, scrutinizing.   
"Why did you come back now?"   
"I was... Predisposed as of late, but I was planning on coming back. I needed you, and it just so happened you were needing me."   
"Okay." John mumbled. Sherlock leaned against the headboard, John's head in his lap. He brought a hand to his face, stroking his hair mindlessly.   
"John?"   
"Yes?"   
"Do you still want to die?" Sherlock felt John tense up. "Don't be afraid; be honest. I'm not going to leave you."   
John bit his lip, a strange feeling burning in his throat.  
"Kind of," John replied.   
"Kind of?"   
John looked up at him and smiled sadly.   
"I don't plan to try to, but I can't help to long for the things I've been addicted too. Not counting you of course."   
"Do you miss it?"   
"What?"   
"The blades."   
"I do," John said. "More than I should."   
John closed his eyes, listening to Sherlock's breathing. He could hear the hum of the heater in the other room. "Will you play for me?"   
"Violin?"   
"What else?"   
"I don't think Mycroft has sent it just yet."   
"Oh."   
Sherlock took a breath, relieved. _We will make no progress if he finds out now,_ Sherlock thought. _You know he'll blame himself._   
"Sherlock," John said tentatively. He sat up and looked at the taller man for a second, before pressing open-mouthed kisses to his neck.   
"John," Sherlock stuttered. "Are you _sure-_ "  
"Do you have any idea," John said between kisses. "How many times I have imagined this?" John drew back, his nose and forehead still touching Sherlock's. "Do you have any idea how much I want to take you apart?"  
John was breathing hard, his voice rough and husky. "I've wanted you since you asked ' _Iraq or Afghanistan?_ ', I've loved you for years, and I plan to love you for many _many_ more.  
"Do you have any idea how I felt when you were charging off into danger? How much I wanted to push you against the wall and ask you what the fuck you thought you were doing?"   
"John-" Sherlock huffed.   
"You don't know about the nights I spent with your scarf wrapped around me, or rinsing blood down the drain, _you don't know!_ "  
" _I do know,_ " Sherlock began, tangling his hands in John's hair. "Because I spent nights with your jumper pressed to my face, trying to convince myself that I did the right thing- trying to tell myself that you were _safer,_ even in someone else's arms."   
John was smiling now, his face wet and gleaming. He pressed his lips to Sherlock's and said  
"God, I love you."   
Sherlock pushed back fiercely, clutching holding, _longing_ to be touched. His long fingers snuck down the back of John's shirt, splaying his fingers on bare skin. John pushed Sherlock down on the bed, not bothering to remove his lips from his. John ground into Sherlock, fiddling with the buttons of his shirt. "Too many goddamn clothes," he muttered.   
"John," Sherlock moaned. He jerked his hips up to John's, whimpering when he felt John's erection against his.   
It was too fast, too frantic. They had both lost control of the situation in their need, their hips crushing together. John pushed down this time, grinding harder against Sherlock, and the taller man whimpered.   
"John, _please_ ,"   
Sherlock stared at John above him, dripping with sweat and pheromones. _His_ John.   
John's hand snuck down between them, pushing, feeling, trying to push Sherlock over the edge. Sherlock's eyes were alight with need, his thrusts becoming staggered and random, breaths fast.   
"Come for me Sherlock, you're so beautiful, come for me."   
Sherlock tensed below him, his hips still moving. He took a staggering breath.   
"John-" Sherlock's hand rubbed against John's erection, immediately pushing him over the edge.   
The two lay sprawled out on top of the covers, panting in their cum-soaked pants like teenagers. John was smiling widely.   
"I feel like I'm about seventeen," he breathed, pulling Sherlock to him.   
"How-" Sherlock began. "Did we get from talking to rutting together on my bed?" John let out a groan.   
"Don't say that word, I'll get hard again."   
Sherlock smiled and pressed his lips to John's.   
"We should shower," he mused.   
"Mhmm," John agreed as he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.


	8. Hidden Afflictions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John discovers what Sherlock has been hiding.

Hidden Afflictions: Ch 8: The Fragility of Loss 

When John woke, he could hear the water running in the bathroom, and the absence of Sherlock in his arms made goosebumps appear on his arms. He had cleaned himself up earlier, but Sherlock had still been fast asleep. John slipped out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom, finding Sherlock washing his face at the sink, just a towel wrapped around his waist, but his back, even through John's bleary, sleep-heavy eyes, seemed odd somehow, seemed-  
"Sherlock?"  
Sherlock dropped his washcloth from his face, eyes meeting John's in the mirror. "Sherlock- what happened to your back?" John asked, still swaying with sleep.  
"I- I thought you were asleep." Sherlock mumbled, turning to face him.  
"What happened?"  
"It's nothing, John."  
John's eyes narrowed as Sherlock made a face at him- hopeless.  
"Turn around, will you?" John said, turning his shoulder. "Are these-"  
"Please John, stop." Sherlock whispered, head falling defeatedly onto the bathroom wall.  
The marks on Sherlock's skin were all too familiar to John, having seen too many kids with scars from whipping and cigarette burns, and the scarred section of Sherlock's body was no different.  
"Oh Jesus."  
John could see where metal had hit flesh- a belt, he assumed, where ash had fallen before it was pressed onto Sherlock's pale skin. A mosaic of past injury and torment- how could John not have known? An exceptionally long mark ran from above his right shoulder-blade to below his left arm, where it was severely burned. John could tell there had been nerve damage. No wonder Sherlock hadn't been playing the violin. "Is this why you can't play?"  
"It's not important."  
John felt tears coming to his eyes as he stood, open mouthed and staring at the mess of Sherlock's skin.  
"Oh my god," John murmured.  
"I was going to tell you- it just didn't seem like-"  
"Don't tell me you're actually trying to apologize for this."  
"But-"  
"I can't believe I missed this. I can't believe Mycroft let someone hurt you."  
"It was for the work, John-"  
"Do you think I care about that? Your safety, it always comes first," John choked. "I can't believe I let this happen to you-"  
"I can't believe I let this happen to you," Sherlock whispered, turning his arm to the light. "It's all physical- it's all over now."  
"It's not over until those bastards that hurt you are dead-" John growled.  
"How do you think I feel? I love the person that hurt you, I can't do anything about what happened."  
"But Sherlock-"  
Sherlock raised a hand to his cheek, eyes like depthless pools.  
"They're dead, anyway. They're all dead."  
John leaned his head against Sherlock's bare chest, arms encircling the small of his waist. Sherlock's head fell against the wall as he wrapped John in his arms, sighing at the contact. "I didn't want you to find out this way, God John." Sherlock lifted one of his arms, kissing the scars he found there.  
"Kissing them won't make them better," John said with a sad smile. Sherlock's eyes were sad, and he didn't respond. John pressed his lips to the top of Sherlock's shoulder, where the scars began.  
"Kissing won't make them better," Sherlock repeated blankly.  
"I know." 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

"You need to eat," John murmured, forehead pressed against Sherlock's. He smiled and opened his eyes.   
"John, _you_ need to eat."   
John groaned and pulled Sherlock closer to him, swearing when his stomach grumbled.   
"We both need to eat." Sherlock whispered.   
"Takeout?"   
"Ok."   
Sherlock slipped out of bed first, reluctantly pulling his arms from around John. John stared at the taller man, his tousled hair flattened on the side on which he'd been laying. Sherlock cocked his head to the side, scrunching his eyebrows. John sighed, sitting up.   
"Put a comb through you hair, you stupid gorgeous man," John said. Sherlock rolled his eyes.   
"I'm going to call for Chinese, okay?"   
"Fine." John slid out of bed, putting on the kettle for tea. He heard Sherlock dial the phone and request their old usuals, bringing in a strange sense of déjà vu over him. Sherlock came into the kitchen, sliding into a chair and watching him without repose. John felt small under his gaze. "Are you going to be taking on new cases soon?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head.   
"No, I don't think so."   
John raised his eyebrows, preparing the tea to brew with two heavy ceramics mugs.   
"Why not? You shouldn't keep the work waiting."   
"I kept you waiting long enough, the work can wait a little longer."   
John laughed, but then his face fell   
"You'll get bored with me you know, Sherlock."   
"I won't," Sherlock claimed shamelessly. "I'm not going anywhere without you. If I go back to the work, you'll be with me."   
John smiled and picked up the cups, sitting one in front of Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope it was worth the wait!


End file.
